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x-x
Malcolm's hand shook as he pulled the bottle down from his shelf, pouring himself a glass of the amber liquid. It had been three days before Enterprise got him out of there. Three days he'd stood up to them, giving them nothing, and then, when he could no longer keep quiet, giving them non-information that seemed like genuine intelligence, trying to throw them off the trail.
Leaving the bottle open on his desk, he slumped onto his bed. Back to the bulkhead, he pulled his legs up in front of him and, forearm resting on his knee, he swirled the liquid in the glass dangling from his hand.
The first day had been taken up with a series of repeated questions, which quickly escalated into physical abuse. His eyes drifted to the back of his hand, tracing the long white scars that now ran from his knuckles to his wrist, then followed a line up and under his sleeve. He had similar marks on his feet, ankles, legs...
He blinked, and they were gone.
He remembered the pain. They'd used a knife. He remembered watching as they used it to carve designs into his flesh. They hadn't let him look away, or close his eyes. And after each session, they would pass a tiny device over the damage, and it would knit itself, leaving his skin unmarked. It was remarkable, really. Phlox would have been impressed.
He took a quick sip from his glass.
On the second day, they began using a small, round, ball-shaped device, its dark blue surface completely smooth and shiny.
He remembered the feeling as it had touched his temple; each instance starting with a shock of cold. It did something to him, something toxic and painful. He could still feel the cold as it had touched his temple, and the questions would start again, each one becoming progressively harder to defend against.
And then they started with the drugs.
On the third day they found the drug that broke him, shattering him into a million pieces, and when they next touched the cold surface of the ball to his temple the words flowed from him like water. He had no idea what he'd ended up saying, and no memories of what happened next. He'd woken in sickbay... No, that wasn't accurate. His first memories were of being bombarded with a series of questions being posed to him by an angry-looking Captain Archer, Trip at his side with his arm in a sling. He'd learned later that he'd been found on the planet, dumped, unconscious, in the clearing from which he'd been taken. The marauders had apparently got what they needed from him, and left him there like so much rubbish.
Archer was grilling him with Trip standing there, his mere presence an accusation, and Malcolm, half in dream, told them yes, he'd told the aliens everything.
Since then, his life had changed.
Shaking his head, he looked down into his glass, its liquid glinting in the dim light. At least they'd left him this. They'd left him little else.
He was on report. There would be a formal inquiry, once they got closer to Earth and could communicate with Starfleet. If they got to Earth before the Xindi.
He was confined to quarters, and Archer was treating him like a criminal. Perhaps worse, Trip rarely visited, and when he did, he spoke to him formally, officially, all pretence of friendship gone.
They would call him a traitor. Perhaps he was.
He didn't object to their accusations, didn't fight. In their position, he'd probably do the same.
He could see where he'd gone wrong - he'd let them become friends. He'd reacted as he had in the situation - going against a direct order, putting vital information into the hands of the enemy - because he'd been protecting friends. Now he couldn't even establish enough distance to see what he'd have done differently, had his judgement not been clouded by the friendship. In the process of saving them, he'd ended up betraying them, his ship, his home, and even himself.
Despite Phlox pronouncing him well, he still felt broken.
Lifting the glass to his lips, he finished the drink.
x-x
Four impulse torpedo launchers, four phase cannon, five hundred gig of...
Stats and figures rattled off in a monotone while Trip's face hovered above him, eyes flashing in anger.
...three prototypes built, the first...
"Stop talking," Trip said, his voice accusing. "You are betraying us all. Betraying me." His face twisted in disgust. "How could you?"
Malcolm felt a surge of rage and next he knew, he was up, hands around Trip's neck, completely calm as he squeezed, his knuckles going white from the pressure.
...Deflectors powered by a combination of...
Malcolm jerked awake, the glass tumbling from his hand, off the bed and onto the floor with a thud. He'd been having variations on the same dream since he'd come back to Enterprise: his voice droning facts and figures about the ship, their weaponry, Earth's planetary defences; Trip's face before him; his hands around Trip's neck...
Heart pounding, he slid off the bed and stood. The dream had left him shaken, and he knew from experience that sleep would be impossible. Eschewing the glass on the floor, he reached for the bottle, taking a long sip directly from its mouth.
Rubbing his temple, he stepped to his window and stared out at the darkness. He'd betrayed them. He must have. After all, why would the aliens have let him go if he hadn't given them what they needed? He wished that he could remember.
He shook his head quickly. No.
No.
He took another sip from the bottle.
He was grateful he did not.
x-x
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